13 Chapter 13 Even My Dad Has Never Hit Me_1

"What are you doing?"

The landlady, shocked and appalled, instinctively tried to withdraw her hand, but the mounted police officer had a firm grip on her wrist and forcefully dragged her closer.

"Behave yourself, you don't want your husband coming out, do you?" the man said impatiently, reaching to pull at the landlady's apron.

"Let go of me! I've already given you the money; don't you dare overstep!" Realizing his intentions, the landlady desperately struggled.

"Damn it, you're playing the saint, huh!" Memories of being rejected by Veronica in the past surged, filling him with anger. He grabbed the landlady's hair and yanked it hard, dragging her to the ground before pressing down on her while babbling incoherently, "After all, you run this kind of place by attracting customers with your looks, don't you? Who knows how many men have been with you... one more doesn't matter... I'm doing you a favor by wanting someone like you!"

"Get off me, you son of a bitch! Don't touch me!" the landlady exploded in anger upon being insulted by a drunkard.

His breath reeked of alcohol, sickening her. Out of sheer anger, she slapped his face with all her might.

A resounding slap left a dark red handprint on the man's face.

The man felt his head buzz, and the last thread of his precarious sanity snapped.

This bitch dares to hit me... Damn, not even my father has ever hit me!

The landlady cursed while frantically reaching out and trying to escape from beneath him, pulling up her skirt and running towards the back door, intending to call for help.

The man, infuriated, tried to get up and tackle her again but his body was unexpectedly heavy and his legs refused to cooperate.

The only thing he could still move was his hand. When he came to his senses, the service revolver that should have been on his waist was now in his hand.

The stinging pain from the slap on his face fueled his rage as he shakily raised his hand and aimed at the landlady's back.

He had just thought of speaking up, to stop her with threatening words, when a deafening gunshot startled him, the recoil causing a sharp pain in his wrist.

The landlady made a muffled sound and fell straight forward, as if someone had kicked her from behind. She struggled in agony, flailing her arms before falling still, the pool of blood under her body spreading gradually.

The glaring blood sobered him substantially, and the gun in his hand felt scorchingly hot.

His mind went blank, with a piece of memory seemingly ripped away forcibly. He couldn't recall if he had fired the gun in a moment of madness or if his finger had twitched involuntarily; the only thing he was certain of was the body lying before him.

I can't stay here...

Fear injected strength back into his alcohol-weakened body. He got up and stumbled out the back door of the tavern, running frantically down the pitch-black alley, toppling several empty wooden crates by the doorway.

A sudden downpour was hitting outside, and within a few steps, he was completely drenched.

A chill wind made him shiver, snapping him to full alertness.

Looking at the gun in his hand, he finally realized the gravity of the situation.

He had killed someone with a police-issue revolver. The mounted police's weapons were specially made, and a simple inquiry would soon trace it back to him.

Go back and clean up the scene now? No, there were several taverns on this street, and even late at night, there were still quite a few people around. The gunshot earlier was bound to have been heard... Returning to the scene might lead to being caught red-handed.

The gun... I must deal with the gun... Damn, if I don't return it on time, that will definitely raise suspicions.

In a frantic rush, he pulled out his pocket watch to check the time—12:37, there wasn't much time left for hesitation.

He gritted his teeth and staggered toward the police station.

"Mr. Jaron, tough night, huh? You got caught in the rain... Quite the ordeal." Bruce, the rookie guarding the armory, greeted him.

After the greeting, Bruce slightly frowned as he caught a whiff of alcohol on the man—though this guy was often known to drink on duty.

Jaron scowled and nodded but didn't move.

Bruce stared at him for a long while, somewhat baffled, "Sir, you... are returning your service gun, right?"

Only then did he stiffly unholster his service weapon and hand it over to the rookie.

As soon as Bruce took the service gun, he froze—he smelled a faint scent of gunpowder.

"Please allow me to check..." Bruce tried to keep his voice as calm as possible, but his eyes were firmly fixed on Officer Jaron.

As the other party started checking the ammunition, Jaron finally lost his composure and reached out to grab Bruce's hand.

"What are you doing!?" Bruce exclaimed, startled.

"Kid, help... help me out!" Jaron strained to squeeze an ugly smile onto his face.

"You... fired a shot?" Bruce glanced at the remaining bullets in the pistol and raised his voice in alarm, "Where?"

At that moment, several mounted officers flashed past at the other end of the corridor.

"No more supper for you guys, get moving now! Someone's been shot in the downtown area!" someone shouted loudly.

Jaron shivered with fear and instinctively reached out to press the gun in Bruce's hand, trying to hide it.

Bruce realized something, and as if electrocuted, he abruptly looked up at Jaron's face, too terrified to speak.

"You just need to do me a small favor... just find a way to deal with this gun for me! I'll repay you! My dad is a congressman! I have connections to get you a promotion..." Jaron said hurriedly, lowering his voice.

"What are you talking about?" Bruce shook his head stiffly, "You used bullets... how can you hide something like this? Go turn yourself in now!"

"Just replace them with someone else's bullets! Or directly swap with another gun!" Jaron gasped for air, and the crisis sparked his normally slow brain into rapid action. Suddenly, he had an idea, "Right! Veronica! Didn't she just have an argument with that woman this morning? She returned her gun, right? Use hers! Yes, use hers!!"

Upon hearing this, Bruce's face changed, "No, that's not okay! Veronica... my benefactor... I could never do such a thing!"

He reached for the police bell button on the desk as he spoke, knowing that one press would bring the duty mounted officers swarming into the storeroom.

"You!" Jaron quickly reached to press his other hand, his expression turning somewhat ferocious, "If you refuse, my family won't let you get away with it! Understand? For a newcomer like you, it would be so easy for us to screw you over..."

"No, you can forget about it!" Bruce answered decisively, his hand already touching the button.

"I'll give you a hundred pounds!" Jaron blurted out desperately.

Bruce's hand paused.

After a long while, he asked with a trembling voice, "You're serious?"

Jaron was taken aback for a moment, then realized he had grasped a lifeline.

"Of course!" he promised eagerly.

Bruce nervously swallowed and stared intently at him, "Then, where's the money?"

"This..." Jaron inwardly cursed the other man for being brainless—who carries that much money on them? But his life was in the other's hands now. Facing the doubtful gaze, he could only take out the most valuable thing he had on him, a gold pocket watch, "Take this! It's worth at least fifty pounds. I'll make up the rest to you later!"

Bruce's eyes immediately fixated on the pocket watch, and he reached out with a trembling hand to grasp it.

Seeing this, a vicious smile appeared on Jaron's lips.